


the forecast says rain

by nasa



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Iron Coffin Debacle, Pre-Canon, Religious Conflict, Religious Content, Religious Guilt, Reunions, contains a scene depicting harassment - details in notes, this is like half nicky trying to decide if he hates christianity ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29364519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasa/pseuds/nasa
Summary: Nicolò wakes breathing saltwater.A grey-haired woman is standing a few yards away, staring at him.“I thought you were dead,” she says.-Nicolò washes overboard during a storm while looking for Quynh. He comes to on a beach in France. With no money or options, he's forced to set off on a long journey to the only place he can imagine Yusuf would go to look for him: Jerusalem, the city where they first met, and the city where they'll meet again, if Nicolò has anything to say about it.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 52
Kudos: 331
Collections: The Old Guard Big Bang





	1. Part I (May, 1623)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [life is very long](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25367467) by [kaydeefalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaydeefalls/pseuds/kaydeefalls). 



> Warnings: Nicolò is dealing with some guilt and anti-religious sentiment. He expresses many views in this fic which are very much anti-organized religion. He comes to around about the utility of religion in the end, but if these themes are offensive to you, or just not your cup of tea, this is not the fic for you. There is also a scene in the third chapter in which a girl is harassed by two older men. If you would like to skip that scene, stop reading at "He’s still thinking about Quỳnh when he encounters the girl," and start again at "Her already wary-gaze turns even more suspicious."
> 
> Another warning: historical accuracy is doubtful. More information, as well as source citations and credits, in the endnotes.
> 
> This was written for the Old Guard Big Bang; PLEASE go check out the gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous art at https://jaymonthy.tumblr.com/post/642958881823358976/my-big-bang-entry-for-nasas-the-forecast-says.

Nicolò wakes breathing saltwater.

He gags. It takes him a moment to process the fact he’s on dry ground; the sand is grainy and wet under his hands, the air cold against his skin. He manages to tip himself onto his side enough to vomit, his whole body trembling. Around him, the world is silent, empty of the warm voices Nicolò has come to expect after a resurrection.

Eventually, he manages to find the strength to push himself up to sit. He’s on a beach — rocky, covered in pebbled stones and great sheets of seaweed, the waves frothing at the shore. The sky is dark and rumbling, as if ready for a storm. His belt hangs loose over his waist; in it, miraculously, are his dagger and sword.

A grey-haired woman is standing a few yards away, staring at him.

“I thought you were dead,” she says.

Nicolò tries to speak but nothing comes out. He coughs, holding himself up with one hand. He tries again. “Where am I?”

“You were dead,” the woman says. She’s looking at Nicolò with an expression he can’t place — it should be terror, but it isn’t. Her shoulders are square. “I could have sworn you were dead.”

Nicolò considers her. “I’m Nicolò,” he offers.

She hesitates for a moment. “Jehanne,” she says.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jehanne,” Nicolò says. His French is rusty; he butchers the _h_ in her name. “Can I assume we’re in France?”

“Saint Nazaire,” she says. “By the sea. Where did you come from?”

Nicolò turns, looking back out over the ocean. Saint Nazaire. It’s on the Western coast of France, if he remembers correctly: far from England, from where they’d first started their search for Quỳnh. Far from where Quỳnh must be, Nicolò imagines. There are no ships on the ocean for as far as he can see. “I was washed overboard,” Nicolò says.“I was taken by a storm.”

-

Yusuf, Nicolò thinks, is going to be so smug about this.

He was the one, after all, who suggested they create a meeting place in case they were separated. _We never know what might happen,_ he had argued; _what if I lost you, in a crowd? What if we were separated from Andromache and Quỳnh?_

Nicolò had said it was a foolish effort. Privately, he had thought he would not allow himself to be separated from Yusuf so easily; publicly, he said that they could just meet up where they last saw each other, as simple as that. But then Quỳnh had stepped in and pointed out that perhaps they wouldn’t be _able_ to meet where they last saw each other - _what if the city burns? What if a desert swallows the oasis?_ And Andromache had groaned and said, “Please, don’t tell me you’re still hung up on the Sahara,” which is how Nicolò and Yusuf had learned that the great desert of Yusuf’s homeland had once been made of grass, and for the moment, the topic had been dropped.

It wasn’t until later that night that Yusuf had brought it up again — he and Nicolò curled on a shared bed roll, Yusuf’s head on Nicolò’s shoulder. _We should have somewhere,_ he had said; _just in case,_ and though Nicolò hated to think of being parted from him, he agreed for Yusuf’s peace of mind. _Jerusalem,_ he had said decisively. _It is where I met you the first time, and if we were ever to part, it is where I will meet you again._

Nicolò must be almost a thousand leagues from Jerusalem now.

“Excuse me,” Jehanne says from behind Nicolò’s shoulder, and he startles violently. She barely suppresses a flinch; she’s holding a clean shirt in one hand, a chunk of bread in the other.

“I’m sorry,” Nicolò says.

“Bah,” Jehanne says, waving a hand. If Nicolò were younger, he might take her bravado at face value, but now he is old enough to see the fear beneath it; she is brave because she chooses to be. “I only thought -” She nods to Nicolò’s wet shirt, which hasn’t done much drying, even sitting in front of the fire as he is.

“Thank you,” Nicolò says, and takes the shirt from her carefully, deliberately avoiding brushing his fingers against hers. He takes the bread, too, and she steps back. “There’s wine in the kitchen, if you’d like some.”

“Oh, I couldn’t impose.”

“It might due to warm you up. You look cold.” She gives him a once-over, her gaze lingering on his shaking hands.

“The ocean has not yet been warmed by spring,” Nicolò says.

“Yes, I know.” She purses her lips. “Well. Get changed, and eat, and come in for wine when you want some.” She disappears.

Sighing, Nicolò does as he’s told. The shirt is rough but clean and dry; the bread is tough, but it’s bread. Nicolò holds a chunk in his mouth, allowing the crust to soften, and considers his options. By boat, it’d take at least a year to get from here to Jerusalem, considering all the port-hopping Nicolò would have to do, but Nicolò doesn’t have the money for that. Even if he did, he probably wouldn’t be able to find passage — the seas have been unusually rough this year, and all unnecessary travel has been grounded. The ship he, Andromache and Yusuf were on had been heading back to shore for just that reason when it was caught in an unseasonably rough spring storm — the storm, of course, which had sent Nicolò tumbling overboard, frantically grasping for rope. A storm of the same sort could easily take him again, and then who knows where he’d end up?

It would be better, Nicolò thinks, if he could at least know that Yusuf is safe. Yusuf had been under the deck when Nicolò went over; Nicolò knows, at least, that he wasn’t taken in the same big wave. But when Nicolò had not returned to their cabin, he might have emerged despite the storm. Perhaps he got caught in a similar rough moment; perhaps his was less kind, and perhaps he was still out there, somewhere, trapped in the eye of a storm, drowning and waking and drowning all over again; or perhaps he did make it back to shore, only for him and Andromache to be kidnapped when they set foot on dry land; perhaps Yusuf had been stabbed and stopped healing, perhaps he is buried in the ground, now, in a pauper’s grave —

But, no. Nicolò can’t let himself think like that. Yusuf is out there somewhere, safe, because he has to be — because Nicolò could not live with himself if he wasn’t. Nicolò needs to apologize to him, after all, and he cannot apologize to a grave.

Jerusalem. It’s a year by sea; by foot, five or more. The thought makes Nicolò’s chest tighten, but he has no other choice. He has to assume that is where Yusuf will go to find him. Five years — it feels like a lot, now, but in the grand scheme of things, five years is nothing. They have spent five years just growing olives. Yusuf has spent five years on a single painting. Andromache and Quỳnh have probably spent five years having sex.

Nicolò just needs to raise the money for a horse. If he can get one, he can cut the trip down to three, maybe four years. He’ll need other supplies, too: a tent, a bedroll, clothes, food.

In the kitchen, Jehanne is waiting at the table, a cup of wine in her hand. She doesn’t startle when she sees him this time. “Come for wine?” she asks, nodding towards the bottle.

“No,” Nicolò says. “I need to find work.”

Jehanne doesn’t say anything.

“I am very far from home,” Nicolò says. “I need to get back to my family. Is there anyone around here who might be looking for help? Anyone who needs an extra hand, an assistant, anything? I can read, and write.”

“I don’t think you’re in a state to help anyone right now,” Jehanne says.

“Yes, but -“

“You need rest,” she says. “This morning, you were dead. Dead men can’t work. Come. I will show you to the hayloft.” She glances over her shoulder at him. “The rest we can discuss in the morning.”

Nicolò wants to argue, but he’s not so foolish as to reject the hospitality of the woman who has given him so much, and potentially his only link to find future work. When Jehanne picks up a lantern and ventures out into the night, he follows her.

-

The hayloft is nice enough — warm and secure, with plenty of soft hay, and Jehanne leaves him a lantern. Really, it’s luxurious compared to some of the places Nicolò has slept over the years. But sleep doesn’t come easily. No matter how much he tosses and turns, he can’t get comfortable; the empty space at his side is conspicuous, and he can’t stop thinking about the hollow of cold air where a sleepy body should lay.

It should be no wonder that he dreams of Yusuf. In his dreams, he is underwater, floating face-down in a murky, green ocean. Below him, locked in an iron coffin, is Yusuf. His eyes are black and terrified through the eye sockets wrought in the iron. _Nicolò,_ he begs, voice warped by the water but audible nonetheless, _Nicolò, please, help me, please —_ but when Nicolò tries to reach for him, his arms won’t move. Neither will his legs, his head; he is stuck in stasis, a frozen terror, unable to help, to move, to so much as _say_ anything to reassure him. _Please,_ Yusuf begs, _pleased do not abandon me, my Nicolò,_ please —

And Nicolò wakes.

Immediately, he is bending over and vomiting in the corner of the hayloft. He shakes; the image of Yusuf in the coffin is burned on the back of his eyes like an imprint of the sun. _It was only a dream,_ he tells himself, forcing himself to breath deep and slow. _Yusuf is safe. He is fine. He is with Andromache._

But it is hard to remember that when he doesn’t know if it’s true; harder still when Nicolò’s last memory of Yusuf is what it is. Unbidden comes the memory of their last conversation. They had been above deck when the captain had warned them a storm was coming, and so they had retreated back to their cabin: Andromache lying flat on her bunk, tossing a knife through the air, Yusuf rubbing Nicolò’s back as he pretending not to be seasick. It was the third storm in as many days, and they had heard rumblings that the ship would return to shore early. The mood was sour, Andromache particularly upset.

“Perhaps this is a good opportunity for a break,” Yusuf had said, his thumb drifting over the back of Nicolò’s neck. “If the season is so rough -“

It was not the first time he had made such a suggestion. For almost a year, he had been proposing they pause their search efforts for some reason or another — a break, he said. They needed a break. The first time he had mentioned it, Andromache had stabbed him in the neck. Nicolò had pulled the knife out and helped Yusuf wash the blood from his clothes, but he had not appreciated the idea either. They had only just begun searching: a few meager years, such a small piece of their long, long lives. How could they give up on her already?

Yusuf had taken the hint and dropped the topic at the time, but it had come up more and more over the following months. His persistence was frustrating. Nicolò didn’t understand it. Just the thought of a break made Nicolò’s stomach tight with guilt, but Yusuf treated the idea with such casualness. For the first time in many years, Nicolò felt utterly closed off from what was going on in Yusuf’s mind.

This time, Andromache had interrupted Yusuf before he could finish.“We’re not stopping,” she had said shortly, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of her bunk. “We’ve only just begun.”

“I’m not suggesting we stop,” Yusuf said. “Just pause. With the weather the way it is, we’re not doing any real good, anyway, and the risk -“

“What, you’re so terrified of losing your own life that you’d leave Quỳnh to be tortured forever?”

“That’s not what I said,” Yusuf argued.“Andromache, you know I miss Quỳnh just as much as you do -“

Andromache scoffed. “Please,” she said. “If you had any idea — _any_ idea how I felt, you would not think to suggest such a thing.”

“I only meant -“ Yusuf broke off, frustrated. For once, he seemed lost for words. He turned to Nicolò, eyes wide, looking for support.

But Nicolò could not give it to him. He pulled away from Yusuf’s hand, and deliberately did not watch the way the expression on his face cracked open. “She is our sister,” Nicolò said firmly. “We will not abandon her.”

“Nicolò, please,” Yusuf sighed.

But to Nicolò, it only sounded like confirmation. “I don’t know what devil has seized your mind lately,” he had snapped, harsher than he intended, “But I, at least, have not given up on Quỳnh yet.”

Yusuf, silent, had swallowed hard.

Nicolò stepped further away. “You make your own decisions. But I am not quitting.”

Nicolò had left the cabin, then, without looking at Yusuf, and gone upstairs to help with the storm. On the upper deck, soldiers were yelling, everyone rushing around frantically as they tried to keep the ship upright. Nicolò had been angry but focused; it was only bad luck the wave had come when it did. When he felt the wave catch him, he had turned, looking for Yusuf — but of course, he was not there.

Now, Nicolò forces himself to his feet. It’s early, yet: Jehanne won’t be up for hours, but he knows he won’t be able to fall back asleep. He tugs on the boots Jehanne had loaned him, then the breeches; he straightens his tunic.

Outside, the roosters are crowning, the first birds beginning to wake and sing from their perches. It’s a new day, the whole world dark and wet. Nicolò takes a deep breath of fresh air and tells himself that this will all be over soon. Jerusalem. He only has to make it to Jerusalem — there, he will find Yusuf, and he will not be so foolish to take him for granted ever again. He just needs to make it to Jerusalem, and everything will be fine.

-

(What Nicolò has not told Yusuf, and what he is terrified to admit even to himself: when they found Andromache, wailing in the chains; when she had managed to tell them, around sobs, what had happened; when Yusuf had fallen to his knees, his hand pressed to his chest - Nicolò had looked at Yusuf and thought, _thank God it wasn’t him_.

He hated himself for the thought. But he still had it. He still has it.)

-

It turns out Jehanne’s husband died six months ago, and she’s been looking for someone to help her with the farm ever since. “Not with the accounting,” she says sternly, when she hears Nicolò can read and write in both Latin and French. “I’m the owner of this farm, you understand? I’m just too old to do most of the manual labor.”

Which Nicolò is happy to do. She compensates him well for his work: free food and lodging, hand-me-down clothes from her husband and a bit of coin each week, so he might share in the profits. Still, it’s not enough to buy a horse, and won’t be for a while. Nicolò seeks out work elsewhere, but people are wary of the strange man who washed up on the beach. One farmer, a friend of Jehanne’s, asks him to help fix a fence broken by a rampaging horse, and Nicolò’s work is apparently good enough to get him a few other jobs: mending a wooden chair here, hauling hay bales there.

But it’s slow going, and Nicolò knows there’s more work that he could be doing. He tries not to get too discouraged. Yusuf, he imagines, would have already won half the town over with his charm if he were in Nicolò’s place: he’d probably be the official town carpenter, by now, if not the mayor. Quỳnh, too, would already have taken the women of the town under her wing. They were always like that, Quỳnh and Yusuf, the social butterflies, making friends everywhere they went. It was Andromache and Nicolò who were the quiet ones, trailing behind them everywhere they went, enduring the enthusiastic arm-waving and invitations to everyone’s family dinner. Nicolò had never understood how they did it. It felt so foreign to him. Perhaps he should have tried harder to learn.

At least he has Jehanne. They speak about many things as the weeks pass — the crops, the cattle, the neighbor’s daughter down the road and her love for Jehanne’s apple cakes. They talk about Jehanne’s husband less often. It still seems to be a sore topic. And why wouldn’t it be, when he’s been dead less than six months? “It was sudden,” she said, the one time they discussed it. “Flu. Here one day, gone the next. Nothing to be done about it, I suppose, but that’s why the farm is such a mess. No time to make plans.”

Which means that there’s a lot to be done, and Jehanne drives him like a workhouse to finish it all. Nicolò really doesn’t mind: it keeps him occupied, if nothing else, and it’s good to see his labor coming to fruition. Jehanne’s a familiar leader in many ways: no-nonsense, strict, seemingly cold but warm at heart. When she tells Nicolò to repair the broken fence, he repairs it. When she tells him to sow the seed, he sows it. When she tells him which weeds to pull, he pulls them, even if they look to him rather like wild carrot. She knows her farm better than he does, after all, and she works just as hard as he does, often toiling in the fields right alongside him.

She takes advice, too, when warranted: in mid-summer, a dead tree falls during a particularly vicious storm, and tears straight through the side of her barn. She wants to build it back up exactly as it was before; Nicolò suggests a different method, an arrangement of the wood he had found had more staying power and required fewer nails. She listens; afterwards, she stands back in the fields beside Nicolò, admiring the door. “Yes,” she says. “I think that worked nicely. It was a good idea. I wouldn’t have thought of it myself.” She turns a sideways gaze on Nicolò. “Where did you learn that?”

Where did Nicolò learn that? He can’t remember. So many years of traveling, so many things seen: it might have been Luoyang, it might have been Marrakesh. Who’s to say?

“Around,” he says vaguely, and Jehanne, thankfully, doesn’t press: another thing Nicolò appreciates about her.

Of course, there are times, too, when she softens. Most often it’s when she’s talking about her husband — “My Robin,” she calls him, a soft phrase for a hard woman. Over the weeks, Nicolò collects information about him in snippets: he had a thick beard that hid his scrawny jaw; apples made his throat itch; he laughed at her mending skills so much in the first few years of their marriage that she had eventually gotten cross with him and made him learn to sew. They had never had children: something in Jehanne, she says, just didn’t work for it, or perhaps it was something in Robin, but he had never strayed.

“He was a foreigner,” she tells Nicolò once. “His accent was atrocious.”

Nicolò smiles. “Better than mine, I’d guess.”

“Oh, no, much worse,” Jehanne says, smiling. “Your accent’s not so bad, really.”

“Please don’t flatter me, I know it’s horrendous -“

“It really isn’t,” Jehanne says. “Why would I lie about this? It’s just - it’s more like you’re out of practice than anything. You speak like a sailor. You just need more conversation. With people who aren’t me.”

But that’s difficult for Nicolò to achieve. The townspeople’s reluctance to accept him has proved stubborn: perhaps its his accent, or the aggressive Roman sculpt to his features, or perhaps it’s just that Nicolò, despite his best efforts, cannot seem to manage decent conversation. He’s tried — Jehanne drags him to the market, occasionally, to help her haul back tools or cheese or milk, but the best he can manage, when greeted, is a tight and awkward smile. Yusuf would probably laugh at him and pull at his lips with two thumbs until he breaks out into a real, wide smile; but Yusuf isn’t here.

“Why don’t you come to church this week?” Jehanne suggests one afternoon. “Everyone else in town does. It might help you find more work.”

It’s a reasonable point. Nicolò knows how important religion is to the people here, just as it is to the people in many other towns; it’s the central cog around which social life is oriented, the central pillar which holds up everything else in life. Still, his instinctual response to Jehanne’s suggestion is to say the church can go fuck itself. He hasn’t attended Mass since he and Yusuf had left Rome — in fact, he hadn’t ever planned to attend again. He’d gotten more than his fair share of Catholicism in his and Yusuf’s hopeless, three-year-campaign against conservatism, and where had that gotten them? Nowhere. Andromache had tried to warn them — Quỳnh had tried to warm them — but Nicolò had been stubborn, so sure they could do something to help. _It isn’t fair,_ he had said, _what they’re doing; we need to do something,_ and Yusuf, as in all things, had supported him. Three years they had spent down there, trying to talk reason to the inherently unreasonable, and all they’d gotten to show for it was Quỳnh at the bottom of the ocean, tortured by the same sort of people Nicolò had been trying to save.

Jehanne must see the way Nicolò tenses at the suggestion, because she raises an eyebrow. “Look, I don’t know if you’re Jewish or Protestant or something else, and I don’t care. But if you want to make friends, going to church is the way to do it.”

“I’ll consider it,” Nicolò says finally, but she’s right: Nicolò’s not doing himself any favors staying home on Sunday mornings and lounging around with the cows. If he wants jobs to make money — and he does — then he needs to make friends.

The next Sunday, Nicolò is waiting by Jehanne’s front door when she emerges in her nice dress. She doesn’t look surprised to see him. “There’s a good shirt inside, on the kitchen table,” she tells him. “Go in, get changed, I’ll wait.”

All of the townspeople are thrilled to see Nicolò at church. “Finally deigned to join us!” Doctor Arnaud chuffs, shaking Nicolò’s hand as though they’d never met before, never mind that he had been out on the farm just last week to see to one of Jehanne’s calving cows. The pastor comes out of the church to greet Nicolò personally; Nicolò forces himself to smile, trying not to focus on the priest’s cassock. The children, at least, are as irreverent and lively as ever, and when one accidentally throws his wooden sword at Nicolò's back, he takes the opportunity to duck away from conversation and quietly demonstrate how to best hold a weapon.

Eventually, everyone is hustled inside for the start of mass. In the pew, Nicolò sits stiff as a board, his gaze locked on the Crucifix at the front of the room. Only his years of practice at Mass allow him to rise and kneel when he’s supposed to: he can’t look away from the priest, the way he’s holding his Bible. Is this what the man who had sentenced Quỳnh had looked like?

[“The gift of God had become more important to Abraham than the God who gave the gift,”](https://www.lifeway.com/en/articles/sermon-life-longest-journey-abraham-isaac-genesis-22) the priest is saying. “Perfectly right and normal for father to love his son, of course, but the great commandment is ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your strength.’ Abraham’s son had taken God’s place in his life. God could never allow this to happen — and indeed, we cannot allow this to happen.” The priest clasps his hands around his pulpit, releases them. “The conflicting of priorities happens to use so _easily_. We confuse His gifts and His possession with Him, and soon we have left our first love. Do you remember how it was at first? How sweet, fresh and real your love for Jesus? How it surpassed all else? _This_ is the love you should aspire to achieve. _This_ is the love you should emulate. Because there is nothing and no one more holy, more loved, in this world than God.”

Nicolò clenches his hands so tight that he cuts into his palms.

“So,” Jehanne says as they’re walking back to her house. “I take it you’re not a fan, then?”

Nicolò rolls the words around in his mouth, considering. He doesn’t want to offend her - but what can he say? The truth? That he has been burned by religion more times than he could count? That, as a boy, religiosity had driven him towards radicalism; that he had once believed in the church so deeply he was willing to kill for it, was willing to steal homes and slaughter innocents and cut the throat of the man who would become the love of his life? And yet still, he had forgiven it: still, over the years, he had continued to turn towards it, regardless of the ways it had harmed him. He and his lover had been spat on by religious zealots: well, those were not true Christians, true servants of the lord. He had been driven out of town with pitchforks and burning stakes for the appearance of his face: well, they were only ignorant of what God truly wanted. The highest men in the Holy Office persecuted those who dared to step outside the norm, putting them to death, to house arrest: well, they could do something to fix it, couldn’t they? They would step in, show them the right way — surely, they would see the right way. But of course, they didn’t. They never would, because things would never change — because the organization to which Nicolò had dedicated his first life, to which he continued to dedicate parts of his life, was fundamentally bad. It would never give anything to Nicolò, or to anyone else. It only took. Now, finally, after all these years, it had taken something from Nicolò that he was unwilling to forgive. And he was done.

“I am not a deeply religious person any longer,” Nicolò says finally. Jehanne nods, like she wasn’t expecting anything else. She doesn’t comment on his phrasing — _any longer._

“If it makes you feel any better,” she says, “I think everyone liked seeing you there. Claire mentioned she and Jean might have work for you.”

“That’s good,” Nicolò says.

“I’m sure you’ll get the money you need saved up in no time,” Jehanne adds. “Now that people are getting to know you better.”

Nicolò smiles tightly. “I’m sure,” he agrees.

They walk the rest of the way home in silence.

-

(What Nicolò tries not to think about: under the anger and resentment and simmering fury towards the church, there exists an equally potent guilt. It was his people who sentenced Quỳnh. If Nicolò had been born later — if he had not been granted the gift of meeting Yusuf — he might have been there, holding a stake. Bigotry runs in circles, and Nicolò has been, too. How many times does one have to get burned before they learn to avoid the flames?)

-

Spring slips into summer, then fall; Nicolò hauls hay, milks cows, and reaps the same seeds he sowed. Each Sunday he goes to church; each week, it gets a little easier to endure, though occasionally, the priest will say something that gets Nicolò’s hackles up and forces him into silence for the rest of the day, for fear if he speaks he will burst out into anger. He has had these spells before; they have never lasted so long, but Yusuf was always around to calm him, then, letting Nicolò rant and then petting his hair when it was over, kissing the circles under his eyes and the rounded bridge of his nose. Nicolò can’t remember what he used to do with his anger before Yusuf gave him a pair of cupped hands to pour it into.

Nicolò misses him.

He does make acquaintances at Church, if not friends. With the jobs they give him, his stores of coin begin to stack up. By the time Christmas arrives, he has almost saved enough for a horse.

Early on, Nicolò had told Jehanne that he was saving money so he could return home; “to my family,” he had told her, but given no further details. Of course, she hadn’t pressed, but she had known how important it was to him; perhaps he should not be surprised, then, when, early on January morning, he wakes to find a horse grazing casually on hay on the lower level of the barn.

Jehanne is in the kitchen, kneading dough when Nicolò comes inside. “You didn’t need to do that,” he says. “You _shouldn’t_ have done that.”

“Well, it’s not like I’m giving it to you for free. I expect a fair price.” Jehanne glances up from the dough and meets his eyes; her expression softens. “It would have taken you months to convince someone to sell you a horse,” she says. “You still haven’t made very many friends.”

Nicolò swallows hard. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, a ‘thank you’ wouldn’t hurt.”

“Thank you,” Nicolò say sincerely. Another woman might have blushed, but Jehanne just clears her throat and looks back down at her dough.

“Yes, well.” She’s suddenly gruff again. “I would warn you to wait until spring, but I suspect you’re eager to get on the road, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Nicolò admits.

“That’s what I thought. Well, I’m making pasties. Go over there, stoke the fire, and then maybe you can take a few with you when you go.”

Jehanne accompanies him to the barn to see him off. She watches him load the saddlebags and heave himself up onto the horse. It’s a gorgeous creature — worth more, certainly, than Nicolò has paid her for it. But she refused to take any more of his money.

Nicolò thanks her the best he’s able, but mostly she brushes him off. The last thing she says to him, as Nicolò starts his horse trotting down the snowy country lane, is, “May God bless you and keep you safe.”

Nicolò wants to say the same thing back, but he can’t quite make the words leave his mouth. In the end he just smiles at her: what else is there to do?

The roads are slick, but empty. Nicolò rides as fast as he dares. It’s only really an easy trot, but it gets him three towns over by nightfall. He’s beginning to look for a place to lay camp when he sees a group of three men approaching from a distance. Nicolò places his hand on his dagger, but as they get closer, he realizes they’re quite drunk; they’re smiling, laughing. When they see Nicolò, they give identical jaunty waves.

“Brother!” one booms. “Have you heard the news?”

Nicolò’s gaze flicks between them. “What news?”

Nicolò thinks perhaps there is a war: perhaps there has been an invasion. Is France under attack? Is France the attacker? But what the man says is, “There has been a change of leadership in Rome! We are now under the sure guidance of His Holiness Pope Urban VIII.”

“May he bless all the sinners,” the other man says.

“Especially the whores,” the first man says, and together the men erupt into laughter.

Nicolò blinks. The men seem to be anticipating a similarly jubilant response out of Nicolò, but for the life of him, he can’t figure out what to say.

In the end, he says nothing. He leaves the drunk men laughing, ignoring their calls after him; he continues on his way.


	2. Part II (January, 1624)

By the time Nicolò and Yusuf found Andromache and Quỳnh, almost fifty years after they had first died, Nicolò had grown used to traveling with a companion. Yusuf was such a bright force — benevolent, generous — and he made traveling a joy. Now, Nicolò could scarcely remember what it felt like to trudge through the countryside alone: five hundred years with Yusuf and the man who had decided to go to Jerusalem and fight in the name of his god sometimes felt like a distant dream.

Certainly the path to Jerusalem did. Try as he might, Nicolò could recall little of it. All that lingered in his memories was the cold: the wind sweeping strong and bitter through Nicolò’s little camp, forcing him to huddle to keep himself warm. He never had that problem traveling with Yusuf, not once. Even when they travelled in the north — Hungary, Siberia, England — Nicolò was kept warm by Yusuf’s body wrapped around him, his hands tucked into Nicolò’s collar.

“You’re a limpet,” Quỳnh had commented affectionately, the first time night they had laid down at the same fire. They had found each other at midday, during a battle; Quỳnh had killed Nicolò by accident, and when he had woken, Yusuf had been bent over him, waiting for him to resurrect. Behind his shoulder stood Andromache and Quỳnh, both of them watching Nicolò with the same carefully blank look on their faces. Quỳnh had been the first to smile; Nicolò always remembered that, later.

“Don’t you like hugging people?” Yusuf asked, not twitching from his position. Andromache was collecting firewood, Quỳnh stoking the flame, and Yusuf, preparing for sleep, had plastered himself to Nicolò’s back like always. His nose pressed against Nicolò’s neck; Nicolò could feel the soft puffs of Yusuf’s breath against his skin when he spoke. “Hugging is the best.”

“Mmh, yes, we’ve _seen_ you hugging. Amongst other things.” Quỳnh winked and Yusuf laughed, as Nicolò flushed at the reminder. They hadn’t thought much about the implications of their dreams until after the first time they had dreamt of Andromache and Quỳnh, twisted together beside the fire — and by then, it had been too late.

“Don’t tease him,” Yusuf had said affectionately, petting at Nicolò’s chest. “He’s shy.”

“That’s not how I remember things,” Quỳnh said, but when Andromache merged from the forest, holding her bundle of branches, she had changed the topic obligingly. “Andromache, why don’t you ever hold me like this, hmm?”

Andromache had glanced over at Yusuf and Nicolò and raised an eyebrow. “Like what? A mother swaddling a babe?”

“Hey,” Yusuf protested half-heartedly.

“Psh, it’s romantic,” Quỳnh defended.

“It’s sweaty,” Andromache had countered, and Quỳnh had laughed, the sound like ice cracking across a frozen lake.

She had always been so happy, then — so joyful, despite everything that had happened to her. It had taken years for Nicolò to piece it all together: the horror of her first death, the years she’d spent alone, that dark time before she met Andromache. Nicolò could scarcely imagine it. If it had happened to him, he would not be so kind. If it had happened to him, he would have been jealous — that he and Yusuf had found each other so early, that God had been so comparatively generous to them. He would have lashed out; he would have been cruel. But Quỳnh was never anything less than gracious. Perhaps it came from her age; but Nicolò tended to think more often that it was just who she was. Fierce in a fight, but defined more by her soft heart than her strong arms.

Now, Nicolò lies awake at night and thinks of her. Alone and cold beside his little smoldering fires, he stares up at the stars and wonders if she can see them, from her perch on the ocean floor. How deep is she? Is it cold? Seven years now, she’s been lost: Nicolò’s never been good at maths, but he knows enough to realize she must have died thousands of times by now, hundreds of thousands. And are they any closer to finding her than they were seven years ago? No. They’re just as lost as ever, searching the endless, swallowing sea for a grave Nicolò fears they will never find.

Nicolò doesn’t sleep much now; when he does drift off, it’s usually late at night, during the coldest hours, and often he wakes early with the dawn to find the fire has fizzled out as he slept. There’s nobody else to stoke the fire: just him and the damp sticks he can find in the woods. Still, those nights are better than the ones where Nicolò dreams. His nightmares are always in the same place, nowadays: the ocean floor, rocky and green, that iron coffin, that familiar scream. When he wakes, he presses his hands to his eyes. _I’m coming. I’ll find you. I promise._

During the day, things aren’t quite so bad. He keeps moving — most of the day he’s on his horse, riding at a steady clip, and even when he has to stop so the animal can rest, he tries to keep himself busy. Searching for nuts in the forest, or animals he might be able to take down with his knife; when all else fails, he finds knobs of wood and whittles them into little figurines. They’re ugly, awkward things, nowhere close to the beauty that Yusuf could achieve in sculpture, but they’re recognizable enough. Nicolò carves a pelican here, an ox there, and when he finishes the statues, he leaves them on the side of the road, awaiting discovery by another traveller.

By spring, there are a fair number of travelers on the road. The winter has been mild, for France, and by March the first caravans have appeared, starting their northward pilgrimage towards their summer houses. Nicolò mostly doesn’t speak to them; they’re usually headed in the other direction, and even when they walk with him, they move at the wrong pace, too slow and steady a clip.

As the weather warms, more travelers find their way to the road. The towns Nicolò stops in become more vibrant, more welcoming: soon, he is able to find work as he goes, small jobs to supplement his supply of coin. He helps pick fruits, milk cows, transcribes the occasional letter. He saves as much money as he can — if he’s lucky, he can get passage on a ship once he makes it to the Mediterranean, which will take him most of, if not the entire, way to Jerusalem.

Of course, a side effect of moving south: the closer Nicolò gets to Rome, the more he hears about the new Pope. “He’s apparently quite liberal,” one town gossip tells Nicolò. He’s in a small town outside of Montendre; the woman, Diane, has him fixing her fence.

“Is that so,” Nicolò says absently, focusing on fitting the new rail into the old post.

“Yes,” Diane continues. “He’s — oh, I wish I could remember his name. What was it? Starts with a B. Bar-something. He worked in the French court for some time — isn’t that something?”

This catches Nicolò’s attention. “Barberini?” he asks.

Diane snaps her fingers. “Yes! That’s it. Maffeo, I think. Of course, he’s Pope Urban VIII, now, so it doesn’t really matter. My husband tells me an interesting choice — of course, I’m not familiar with the intricacies of papal politics, so what do I know? Ha!” 

But she’s right: it is an interesting choice. Nicolò had met Maffeo Barberini while he and Yusuf were in Rome — he had just returned from a visit to Bologna, to which he was papal legate, and Nicolò and Yusuf had managed to wrangle an invitation to dinner at his palace. It was something of a feast — they weren’t able to catch his ear for long — but he had seemed like a nice man, at least. Interesting: Galileo had liked him. “He has the right idea,” he had confided to Nicolò. “A Pope like him would do all of Rome nicely.”

And now, apparently, that was precisely the kind of Pope they had.

For days after Nicolò hears the news, all he can think about is Yusuf, and whether or not he’s heard. The uncertainty is stomach-turning; he’s grown spoiled, lately. He hasn’t been apart from Yusuf for this long in centuries; not since the 1200s, when Yusuf went on a wild escapade with Quỳnh through the Jin lands in China, and Nicolò and Andromache had stayed in Poland, working a series of small jobs out of a little stone house. Nicolò had worried, then, but at least he’d known where Yusuf was and when Yusuf would return to him. Now, when he tries to imagine where Yusuf is, he can only imagine the vaguest of surroundings.

Might he be in Spain, a stopover on his way to Jerusalem? Back in England, waiting for Nicolò to return to Portsmouth? In Malta, even, at their little stone cottage with the ivied walls and the neighbor’s goats, who are always breaking into their yard? Who’s with him? Is Andromache there — has she been able to stop her search for Quỳnh, to help Yusuf find Nicolò? Or is Yusuf alone, a single body in a crowded marketplace surrounded by strangers; is he in the seasick-inducing bottom bunks of a merchant ship or the cold blackness of their old home? Is there anyone there to rub his hands when they grow stuff and white in the wind? Who will step in when Yusuf’s artistic mind refuses to let him set down his pencil; who will feed him, comb his hair, kiss his cheek?

Nicolò has grown complacent; he has grown ungrateful. For all he loves Yusuf - for all Nicolò believed him to be a gift from God, for all Nicolò believes him to be the greatest man in creation — Nicolò has taken him for granted. He has forgotten how lucky he is, to have Yusuf at his side. How easy it would be, to separate them.

He vows, in France, that he will not forget again.

-

By the time winter arrives again, Nicolò has almost made it to Marseille. He doesn’t have much money saved up — winter came on faster than he had anticipated — but it’s just about enough for passage on a ship, if Nicolò works along the way as well. Usually, there is no shortage of demand for sailors. The first of the ships won’t be leaving until March, of course, but if anything, that just gives Nicolò an opportunity to save a little more money — maybe head over to Nice, if the situation calls for it, pick up some carpentry work or something in that vein. For the first time in almost two years, Nicolò feels hopeful. Even the constant talk of the Pope (the saints he canonizes, his history working in the French court) cannot dampen Nicolò’s spirits. Just a few more months, Nicolò thinks, and he should be in Jerusalem.

And then he discovers that war is on its way to Genova.

He should have seen it earlier. He had heard of the movements by the French against the Spanish in the fall — just whispers, really, from town to town. Nicolò had hoped they were only rumors. He should have known better by now. The wars never stop,not really, not when the world is like it is. Not when people are the way they are.

“We ship out tomorrow,” one of the boys at the table next to Nicolò is saying proudly. The tavern is dark and loud and full of men about to become soldiers. Nicolò keeps his head down, his hand on his glass; Andromache has always said he looks aggressively Roman, with his big nose and sunken eyes, and Nicolò doubts that will do him any favors tonight. “The Genovese don’t know what’s coming for them!”

It shouldn’t change things for Nicolò. Genova hasn’t been his homeland for many years; it’s been centuries since Nicolò so much as visited. Nicolò has no dog in this fight. Not to mention, how would Nicolò even get to Genova, if he wanted to help? He can’t walk through the Savoy, not knowing now that the land is filling, slowly but surely, with soldiers ready to take a piece out of the Genovese.

And yet, Nicolò cannot help but think of his sister. Maria had been sixteen when Nicolò had left to fight; she had hugged him tearfully, too-tight, with inappropriate tears in her eyes. _He is going to serve the Lord,_ their mother had chided, eventually stepping forward to pull Maria away, but Nicolò had always remembered it, that last look he had at his sister’s face: her eyes red and puffy, shoulders slumped and small. She would have had children not long after that, Nicolò suspects. They wouldn’t still be alive, of course, but if they had had children, and those _children_ had had children, and so on and so forth — perhaps Nicolò’s family line still lives in Genova.

Nicolò had not gone back to visit his family, after his first death. Yusuf had offered, but it had already been decades by the time they were near Genova, and Nicolò told Yusuf it wasn’t worth the risk. After all, how could he explain his unchanging appearance? Yusuf took the explanation at face value and didn’t argue, simply charting them a path further north towards Bratislava. They hadn’t visited Yusuf’s family either; he had agreed it wasn’t worth it. But the decision affected Yusuf far more than Nicolò, and Nicolò knows that Yusuf still regrets it sometimes.

It’s not hard to imagine, then, what Yusuf would do in this situation. If there was a threat facing Mahdia, Yusuf would go to fight it — it was quite simple. Not easy, perhaps, but simple.

_Ah, my love,_ Nicolò thought that night, lying in his rented, bed, the common room raucous with laughter two floors below him. The bed, despite its thick blankets, was cold. _Forgive me._

The next morning, Nicolò got up with the sun and went down to the market, where he found someone willing to buy his horse. Then he went down to port, and used all of his working savings to buy passage on a ship in three weeks time.

He was going to Genova.

-

(What Nicolò hadn’t told Yusuf - but which, he now suspected, Yusuf surely knew - was that Nicolò was terrified, not just of his family’s judgement, but of Genova itself. He had been such a hateful man when he lived there: lonely, yes, but angry, too, and willing to take it out on innocents. Sometimes he looked back and marveled at how different he used to be, how much he had changed - but it was not a comfort. If he could get better, he could get worse, too, and this was Nicolò’s greatest, secret worry: that if he wasn’t careful, if he was left alone and abandoned again, he might become that hateful man once more.)

-

Genova, when Nicolò arrives, is bustling with bodies.

He moves slowly up the streets, dodging overturned baskets and piles of horseshit. He had forgotten that cities smelled this rotten. Occasionally, the random passerby turn to look up at him with faint curiosity, but they move on quickly enough; the city is in a hurry to prepare for the coming invaders, Nicolò can tell. A stray traveller is the least of their concerns.

Eventually, Nicolò finds an inn. It’s attached to a tavern on a street he thinks he vaguely remembers visiting as a child, but he can’t be sure. So many years away and he finds his memories of the city, seemingly so vibrant in his mind, now pale compared to the reality. The city might be exactly as it was five hundred years ago, or it may not. Nicolò has no way to tell.

At the back of the empty tavern, a man is hunched behind a counter. “Excuse me,” Nicolò says politely, in his best Genoese.

The man startles. “Who are you?”

“I’m a traveller,” Nicolò says. “Looking for lodging.”

“We’re closed to visitors,” the man says. “The whole city is. I don’t know if you missed it, somehow, but there are invaders coming.”

“Yes,” Nicolò agrees, tilting his body to show the sword sheathed at his hip. “I would like to help.”

The man is initially wary — “You could be from anywhere,” he says, which is how Nicolò learns his accent has deteriorated significantly in the years he’s been away — but after Nicolò offers him a few coins for his help, he gives in and points Nicolò to a church a few streets over. “They’ve turned it into a sort of barracks,” he says, slipping Nicolò’s money into his pocket. “Housing the boys who plan to fight. There’s a man there, Anzolo. He should be able to tell you how to help.”

Nicolò thinks he vaguely recalls the church that the man is talking about, and sure enough, when he rounds the corner, he finds a building that was once very familiar to him.

He had not gone here often, during his childhood — it was not his family church — but he remembers passing this place when he ventured out to the market with his nonna. They had always used to have flowers in the windows in the most stunning blue and purple shades; he had tried to touch them, more than once, which earned him a hand smacking and a stern warning against stealing. His grandmother didn’t care to listen to his protestations that he _only wanted to feel the petals, nonna._ Eventually, he stopped arguing, but he never stopped wondering what they’d feel like, the vibrancy he was sure would stain his own palms.

Now, there are no flowers anywhere to be seen. The stone church has held up surprisingly well for its age: its corners are strong and it steeple is, somehow, still standing. But the windows which had once hold the vases have been bricked over, and there is a deep groove in the stone entryway to the church, worn down by many feet.

“You looking for something?”

The voice is that of a young man’s. He’s fresh faced and dark-haired, dressed in a black cassock. “I’m here to help,” Nicolò says.

The priest nods easily, as if strange men appearing to offer their services is a regular occurrence. “I’m Anzolo,” he says, extending a hand to shake.

Nicolò accepts it. “Father.”

“Did someone send you?”

“No,” Nicolò says. “I came on my own accord.”

Anzolo’s gaze turns sharp where it runs over Nicolò, but thankfully, he doesn’t press. “You look hungry,” he says instead; “Let me show you to the kitchens. There should be some porridge leftover from breakfast.”

“Oh, I don’t need -“

“I insist,” Anzolo says. “If you don’t eat it, it will just go to waste.”

Which Nicolò seriously doubts — he remembers, back in seminary, how much he sometimes hoped for an extra mouthful of bread, how all the priests did; they were never starving in the church, but there was never quite enough — but just then his stomach growls, and Anzolo’s face breaks out into a smile.

“I see you agree with me,” he says. “Come. This way.”

-

There was a period, in the 1300s, where Yusuf decided he hated porridge.

It was a thing that came on suddenly; one morning, Yusuf woke up and took his bowl of oats and berries from Nicolò gladly, kissing him on the mouth in thanks; the next, Nicolò tried to hand it to him, and he practically gagged at the sight. “I don’t know what it is,” he tried to explain, when Nicolò, baffled, asked what had gotten into him. “I just can’t — I swear to God, Nicolò, if you get any closer to me with that thing —“

They had been on one of their sabbaticals, Andromache and Quỳnh vacationing in Tibet, Yusuf and Nicolò in Sicily, so Nicolò wasn’t able to ask Andromache or Quỳnh if they knew what was wrong — if they had encountered food aversions like this before, if they had felt something like this, if it was just another strange feature of immortality. Later, when they met back up again, he would discover they had; that though the two of them had never been particularly picky, Lykon would go through bouts where even the blandest foods became disgusting to him. “I think it’s just age,” Quỳnh would say. “Hundreds of years of eating the same food, it’s not absurd to think the stomach grows sick of them. Of course, _some_ of us are more dramatic about it than others —“

Yusuf had squawked and shoved at her, and Quỳnh had laughed, tackling Yusuf back into the dirt. They had grappled by the fire for a few moments before Quỳnh inevitably gained the upper hand; Andromache and Nicolò had watched, laughing, as Yusuf begged for release from Quỳnh’s iron headlock.

But that was later. In the moment, Nicolò hadn’t known that this was normal, and he had worried that Yusuf was getting sick. Could they get sick; was that allowed? Or Yusuf’s immortality — perhaps it was waning? Nicolò had fretted, feeding Yusuf buttered toast and pressing his hand to Yusuf’s forehead occasionally, checking for a fever that never arrived as Yusuf assured him no, really, it was fine, he just really doesn’t want porridge, and maybe his tastes had simply changed the last time he was resurrected? Did Nicolò think that could happen? Nicolò said he didn’t know. He kept checking Yusuf for fevers.

In the end, Yusuf’s aversion went on for months before it suddenly disappeared: just as it had begun overnight, one morning, Yusuf simply woke up and wanted some porridge. “With berries,” he said, and Nicolò hastened to bring it to him, watching as Yusuf consumed it with obvious enthusiasm. A knot in Nicolò’s chest had relaxed, then, a knot he hadn’t known was there.

He thinks about that now, as Anzolo serves him a bowl. This porridge is — not great. Certainly not up to the quality Nicolò is used to; after five hundred years, he has perfected making porridge, as he has perfected most dishes. This porridge is simultaneously thin and gloopy, lacking in anything to give it flavor. Still, it’s food, and Nicolò wolfs it down so fast he’s surprised when his spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl. “There’s more,” Anzolo offers, but this time Nicolò shakes his head and is resolute. He shouldn’t have taken this in the first place — he has money for food, even if he hasn’t been spending much of it lately.

Afterwards, Anzolo shows him towards the barracks, or what’s functioning as barracks, anyway. It used to be the central room of the church, filled with pews. Now the pews are gone, probably broken down for firewood or supplies of some sort, and makeshift bed rolls fill the empty space. A few men sit scattered about, most of them sharpening knives or sewing patches onto their jackets. In the corner, a mostly-empty rack of weapons waits by the Virgin Mother’s shrine.

It’s such an obviously untrained effort for defense that Nicolò half wants to cry.

“I know it’s not much,” Anzolo says. “We don’t have many soldiers here. The actual soldiers are down by the walls of the city. We’re the — backup, I suppose. The second line of defense.”

Nicolò doesn’t say anything.

“You can take whichever bed roll you like. Everyone mostly shares, and sleeping in shifts, there’s always plenty of space.” Anzolo shoots him a look out the corner of his eye. “Perhaps you should rest now.”

But though Nicolò always looks tired, he slept well last night, and he knows if he tried to sleep now, he’d get nowhere. “I’m fine,” he says. “What can I do to help?”

So Anzolo shows him. A fair amount of it is chores — helping lug in grain from outside the city walls, in preparation of a siege; fortifying the church windows with splintered pieces of church pew. But after Anzolo spots Nicolò gently correcting the form of two boys sparring outside, he’s directed to help the men preparing as well. It’s bittersweet: it’s nice for Nicolò to finally be using his sword again, after so long without practicing. But these men are barely men — they’re children, and the usual rush of endorphins Nicolò gets when sparring with Yusuf is conspicuously absent.

Of course it is: who could hope to dance with Nicolò in the way that Yusuf does?

It only takes a couple days for Nicolò to get a read on Anzolo as a kind man despite the cassock. He is gentle with the men who don’t scarcely seem to know what they’re doing, and he never pressures Nicolò to pray with the rest of them. As time passes, Nicolò’s impressions are only confirmed, not undermined. When the city is finally placed under siege, and some of the young men start to panic, Anzolo is the first to comfort them. When hungry mouths start showing up at the church’s door, Anzolo never turns them away.

The fighting remains frustratingly out of Nicolò’s grasp. In one sense, it’s good — if Nicolò needed to fight it would mean the city walls have been breached — but it’s difficult for Nicolò to sit around doing nothing. Mostly, he spends his time training. Even when there is no one willing to spar with him, he goes at it alone, practicing jabs in the empty space behind the church, listening for the tell-tale clanging of emergency bells. He chats with the other men when he needs to, but he doesn’t try to make friends. At night, he sleeps alone.

Nicolò has been in the city for almost a month when, one afternoon, Anzolo comes to join him at dinner. Usually, Nicolò sits in the corner of the church, alone, his plate perched on his knees. Now, Anzolo folds his legs in front of him, almost spilling his drink as he sits.

“Father,” Nicolò says after a moment, when Anzolo doesn’t say anything.

“You don’t have to call me that,” Anzolo says. “It is fairly obvious you’re not a believer.”

“I once was,” Nicolò says.

Anzolo raises an eyebrow as he takes a bite of his stew, a silent question.

Nicolò nudges his fork around his own plate. “I was once a priest,” he says. “Just as you are.”

Now Anzolo looks really surprised, though he tries to hide it. “I wouldn’t have guessed,” he says. “What happened?”

Nicolò shrugs, looking out at the heads of the men huddled around the church, eating their own dinners, playing cards. “What always happens?” he says. “War.”

Anzolo nods. “It does always seem to arrive somehow, doesn’t it? But you chose to fight.”

It’s not a question, but Nicolò feels compelled to answer it anyway. “I believed that was what God wanted me to do,” he says. “I thought it was my calling. I was wrong.”

“Yet you are here.”

Nicolò shakes his head. “That’s not - I have family in the area. I was only passing by, but I thought I should — it would be wrong not to help. When they’re so invested in this place.”

Anzolo hums, considering Nicolò as he chews. “Why have you not gone to your family, then?”

Nicolò blinks. “Because the fighting is here.”

Anzolo looks around pointedly. “I don’t see any enemies.”

Nicolò huffs. “That’s not — the fighting _will_ be here. This is where I can be the most use. My family, they will be fine, in the countryside. They’re safe.”

“So you don’t fight for God,” Anzolo says. “But you do fight for the greater good. Tell me, Nicolò: is that not the same thing?”

Nicolò clenches his jaw and looks away.

“I’ll admit,” Anzolo says, after a long moment. “I don’t know you very well. We have only just met. But I think it is a unique man who would come to a place to defend his family, and then not go to see his family at all.”

“I told you, they’re safe,” Nicolò says. “It would be selfish, to go to them.”

Nicolò is no longer talking about his sister’s descendants.

“Ah, Nicolò,” Anzolo sighs. “Perhaps it has been too long since you have studied the Bible.”

Nicolò huffs out a humorless laugh. “I have met many priests who would disagree with you.”

Anzolo tilts his head. “Yes, well. We are but imperfect men, aren’t we? Servants of God, yes, but fallible. You should know that more than most.” Anzolo shifts forward so he can set his hand on Nicolò’s knee. “And maybe you have forgotten, Nicolò, but I will remind you now: loving? Loving truly? That can never be selfish.”

Nicolò swallows hard around the lump in his throat.

“But of course,” Anzolo says, leaning back. “That is just my interpretation. Like I said, I am fallible too. But worth thinking about at least, no? I will leave you to finish your meal. I’m sure there are plenty of things which desperately need my attention, if my parishioners are to be believed.”

He rises to his feet. “And Nicolò — if you do decide to go find your family — well, there would be no shame in it, I think.”

He disappears with a sweep of his cassock, leaving Nicolò with his bowl of stew that tastes like gruel and not much to do but think. What would Yusuf say, Nicolò wonders, if he overheard? Would he agree? _We can do some good:_ that was what Yusuf always said when a job came their way. It didn’t matter what they were doing. Even if they were in Mahdia, Yusuf’s favorite city in the world, lazing around getting fat off oranges and painting, and the call came from Andromache to join them for war in Siberia — Yusuf would go.

Surely, Yusuf would disagree with Anzolo. Surely.

He thinks of Yusuf on the boat, the furrow of his brows as he’d said, _I’m as desperate to find her as you are, but the risk — it’s not worth losing the rest of us._

Nicolò is still thinking it over when he falls asleep that night; and it is on his mind the next morning, when he wakes to the sound of raucous cheers. A young man has just burst into the chapel waving a victory flag.

“The Spanish have arrived!” he is yelling. “We’re saved, we’re saved!”

The siege is over.


	3. Part III (June 1625)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: harassment is depicted in this chapter. If you'd like to skip that, please stop reading at "He’s still thinking about Quỳnh when he encounters the girl," and start again at "Her already wary-gaze turns even more suspicious."

There are many places Nicolò could go from Genova.

Back to Marseilles, to catch a ship. Down the boot of Italy to Rome or Palermo with the same goal. In the end, he settles on Venice: it’s not too far from Genova, relatively, and Nicolò suspects it will be easier to get passage from there than from Genova’s own port, given the disruptions of the siege. It’s time, he thinks: he’s ready to go home.

Except little things keep getting in the way. There are an unusual number of travelers on the roads, many of them displaced, many of them children; Nicolò finds his sack of coin dwindling much faster than he’d anticipated, doled out to hungry little fingers. Then, just a few weeks ride from Venice, Nicolò’s horse twists its ankle, and Nicolò is forced to sell it for meat. By the time he reaches the city, the traveling season is over; Nicolò goes to port, but it’s just enough to confirm for himself that no more ships will be launching from Venice this year.

He could grow disheartened, and part of him does. Another year, another winter without his Yusuf. Nicolò still has the nightmares, sometimes; when he does, he always wakes aching, wishing for nothing more than to hold Yusuf in his arms.

But just as often as Nicolò dreams of an iron coffin, he dreams of Yusuf lying in bed beside him. In Alexandria, in Mahdia, in Saxony: the soft curl of his beard under Nicolò’s fingers, the way the skin beside his eyes crinkle when he smiles, when he says, _Good morning, Nicolò, you look very handsome this morning._ They aren’t just dreams, they’re memories, and Nicolò soaks them in.

On the night Nicolò arrives in Venice, he dreams of Yusuf picking weeds outside their cottage in Naples. They haven’t been back there for many years, but Nicolò remembers it so clearly: the knotted tree in the front yard, the rough-hewn stone of the entryway, laid by Nicolò and Yusuf’s own hands. “Valentina invited us for dinner tonight,” Yusuf is saying. “Maybe we can bring some of those.”

He nods to Nicolò’s hands. Nicolò looks down and finds himself holding an armful of peaches.

“We should bring something more substantial than peaches,” Nicolò hears himself say.

Yusuf smiles, a quick and easy thing, as naturally as breathing. “Well, I didn’t say _just_ peaches,” he says. “She’s got seven children, we’ll bring wine, too,” and he’s laughing at his own joke when Nicolò kisses him. ****

That morning, Nicolò stops at an inn to buy breakfast and overhears a man talking about his wife and children. He’s telling his friend he means to send them to the countryside to live with family, while he works in the city — but he can’t afford to accompany them, and worries for their safety on the road. With the image of Yusuf still burned in his mind — peach juice dripping down his cheeks, his arms browned by sunlight — it’s all too easy for Nicolò to step in and offer to help. “I’m moving that way anyway,” he says, and when the man still seems skeptical, adds, “I am going to join a seminary. I mean to become a monk.” That convinces him, and within a week, Nicolò is on the road again, this time with a gaggle of children trailing behind him like a flock of baby ducklings.

He means it as a temporary delay. But he keeps finding himself sidetracked by those who need help: a man who desperately needs his extra bit of coin to buy boots for his son, who works all-day in the fields, freezing his toes off; a woman tied in a property dispute after her husband passed and his brother decided to try to claim all her land.

Weeks pass, and then months, and eventually Nicolò sets a new goal: rather than return to Venice by the spring, he will make his way to Constantinople. There, he will finally catch a ship to Jerusalem; there, he will finally make his way to Yusuf.

-

Quỳnh always used to love Constantinople.

They always seemed to end up there, passing in and out of the port to get to one place or another, and Quỳnh was always keen on the vibrancy, the bustling markets, the bright clothes. Though she never said it, Nicolò suspected that a big part of her appreciation for the city was tied to the fact it was a major producer of baklava, Andromache’s favorite food. Quỳnh and Yusuf used to do all of the shopping — Yusuf, a former merchant’s son, was eager to get the best price and hated the way the others wouldn’t barter, and Quỳnh just liked to meet new people. They bought the bread and meat and fruit first, especially when they were low on coin, but Nicolò can only remember a handful of times when they returned from the market without at least one paper-wrapped square of baklava. _It’s the least Andromache deserves,_ Quỳnh had told Nicolò once, when his gaze lingered on the package. _I think a thousand years alone earns you some dessert._

And she was right, of course. Not that Nicolò would have begrudged Andromache her treat either way, but he wouldn’t have thought of it; Quỳnh and Yusuf were different like that, the pair of them. Bubbly, gregarious, always thinking of others — so different from Andromache and Nicolò, who, for all they tried, tended to turn in on themselves before turning to others. Nicolò often thought that he and Andromache were the ones truly made to fight, the born warriors, while Yusuf and Quỳnh, though competent, were built for something much kinder.

Nicolò is thinking of this as he picks his way across the land which now composes of the Ottoman Empire. The empire is far from a cultural monolith, of course, but there is something about being in the country, knowing how near he is to Constantinople, that dredges up all the happy memories of Quỳnh at once. Quỳnh running, laughing, from a cluster of kids outside of the city gates. Quỳnh passing Andromache a square of baklava, waiting with bated breath for her verdict. Quỳnh slinking into their shared room after dark, her movements soft with wine, and, laughing, dipping into Yusuf and Nicolò’s bed to curl around their ankles like a warm-bellied alley cat.

He’s still thinking about Quỳnh when he encounters the girl. He’s distracted as he rides; for a moment, he doesn’t notice her at the edge of the road, nor the two men with her. But then she lets out a sound, a choked-off cry, and Nicolò comes back into himself all at once.

“Excuse me,” he calls. The girl is walking on, her shoulders hunched, a rucksack slung over her shoulder; she’s clearly trying to ignore the men trailing behind her, but they’re persistent, too-close to her face. Neither of the men turn at Nicolò’s call, but the girl glances up at him: eyes wide, dark and terrified.

“Excuse me, sir,” Nicolò says again, tone sharp.

This time, one of the men does turn. He’s big and burly, his shoulders set with confidence and forearms threaded with hair. “What do you want?”

Nicolò glances between the man and the girl, who has dropped her gaze, continuing to plod forward as the other, leaner man whispers something in her ear. “I was only going to ask for directions,” Nicolò says. “But now I think I will ask what you think you’re doing.”

The big man’s eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Nicolò says. “Leave the girl alone.”

“The girl is my niece,” the big man says, “And it’s none of your business what we do with her. So you can fuck right off.”

Again, Nicolò looks at the girl; her ducked head, her trembling fingers. “I don’t think so,” he says, and slides off his horse.

In the end, once Nicolò pulls his sword, the men are not so brave; the big one gives a half-hearted attempt at a fistfight that ends in a slice across his forearm and him turning on his heel; the skinny man does not put up any fight at all. Afterwards, Nicolò sheathes his sword and approaches the girl carefully.

“Are you all right?” Up close, Nicolò realizes this is not a girl at all but a young woman — very young, probably newly married, but with a square jaw and tired eyes that mark her as older than a child.

“I’m fine,” the woman says, collecting her shawl around herself. “I - thank you.”

“It’s no problem,” Nicolò says. “Are you traveling alone?”

Her already wary-gaze turns even more suspicious. “I’m not sure how that’s relevant,” she says.

Nicolò puts his hands up. “I only meant to ask whether there was anyone waiting for you,” he says, and then, realizing that doesn’t make him seem any more benevolent, hastily amends, “I just mean someone accompanying you! To help — to ward off — to protect you. Not that I mean to suggest that you need protection, of course —”

Nicolò’s cheeks are growing flushed, but thankfully the woman takes pity on him and says, “I understand what you mean. I —” Her jaw works. “I confess I am traveling alone.”

She doesn’t offer any more information, and Nicolò doesn’t ask it. Instead, he presses his hand to his chest. “Nicolò,” he says.

“I’m Sofia,” the woman offers. “Which direction are you headed?”

Nicolò nods ahead of them on the road. “South,” he says. “Towards Constantinople.”

Sofia raises an eyebrow.

“I’m getting a ship there,” Nicolò explains. “Headed home.”

“To — Italy?” Sofia guesses

Nicolò shakes his head. “Jerusalem,” he says. “My family is there.”

Sofia nods. “I understand. I’m also going home. My familial home, that is. It’s — my father is very ill.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Nicolò says.

Sofia waves a hand with put-upon nonchalance. “It’s nothing, really. I’m sure he’ll be fine. But Ihsan — my husband — when we received word he agreed I should travel home to visit, but he was unable to accompany me. It’s not far, really. A few days' time.”

Nicolò does not say what he is thinking, which is that a few days’ time can be very long, for a young woman such as Sofia, on the road all by herself. Nicolò suspects she already knows.

“It must be lonely,” Nicolò says instead. Sofia shrugs.

“It is only a few days,” she says. “And I have God with me, so I am never truly alone.”

Nicolò nods. “Are you headed South as well?”

“Yes,” Sofia says. “The same direction as you.”

“Well,” Nicolò says. “I would not want to presume, or make you uncomfortable. But perhaps, if you would find it acceptable, we could travel together for a time.” Sofia’s gaze darts over Nicolò’s face and so he is careful to keep his expression open when he says, “I would hate to learn that something had happened to you because you were traveling alone. As competent as I am sure you are.”

“I have God to protect me,” Sofia says.

“Yes, well,” Nicolò says. “Perhaps God has sent me to you.”

Sofia hesitates, and Nicolò says again, “As I said, I don’t mean to pressure you. But we are headed in the same direction anyway. It seems a foolish opportunity to pass up.”

Sofia’s gaze flicks over his horse. “You’d have to travel on foot with me.”

“I’m sure my horse would appreciate the break,” Nicolò assures her.

“Hmm. What’s its name?”

The question takes Nicolò by surprise. “I haven’t named her,” he says.

Sofia raises her eyebrow. “If you are trying to convince me you are a good person, you should not tell me things like that. Who doesn’t name their horse?”

It startles a laugh out of Nicolò. “You can name her, if you like,” he tells her. “You’re right, it was an oversight on my part.”

Sofia considers the horse. “Jerry,” she says finally. “Because you are headed to Jerusalem. See? It is perfect.”

Nicolò smiles. “You have a way with names,” he says.

Sofia snorts. “Tell my husband that. He’s got strong opinions about what we should name this one,” she says, her hand falling to her stomach.

She stiffens a moment later, as if this was not information she was meaning to share, and again, Nicolò is careful to keep his stance casual. “Congratulations,” he says. “Your first?”

Sofia nods cautiously. “It’s only been a few months. Not a sure thing, yet.”

“Still,” Nicolò says. “A child is a —” _Blessing,_ he almost says, the word rising by instinct to his lips, and he has to swallow it back. “A great thing,” he finishes lamely.

But Sofia only smiles. “That is what I think,” she says. “I am hoping my father will feel the same, when I see him. Not that it — I only think he needs some good news, now.”

“Yes,” Nicolò agrees. “We could all use some good news.”

But then, with the world like it is: when can’t they?

-

Nicolò’s pace is, as predicted, significantly hampered by Sofia’s presence. They can’t both fit on the horse — or they _could_ , but not in an appropriate manner befitting two strangers — and Sofia can’t keep up the same pace on foot that Nicolò can. Nicolò suggests, several times, that Sofia ride on the horse — “There’s no reason for us both to walk, when Jerry is right here,” he reasons, but she stubbornly insists, “Well, you hop up there, then,” and so Jerry gets a break.

Only once or twice does Sofia acquiesce to ride on the back of Jerry, and this is when she starts to feel dizzy and faint. It doesn’t happen very often, but occasionally it comes on suddenly: they’ll be walking, chatting about some thing or another or maybe traveling in silence, and suddenly Sofia will wobble on her feet. It’s all Nicolò can do not to reach out and grab her around the waist to hold her upright.

Sofia has other symptoms too, which Nicolò can only imagine come from her pregnancy, though he has never been around a pregnant woman before. Firstly, she gets hot very quickly. She’s also nauseous near-constantly and can never seem to find a comfortable position to sleep in at night, though Nicolò is not sure if that’s because she’s used to sleeping on a softer surface, or perhaps that she simply isn’t accustomed to sleeping alone.

Once or twice, when they run into other travelers, they are mistaken for husband and wife. Nicolò finds it is easiest to go along with the assumptions, short-lived as they are — how else to explain what he is doing here, with Sofia, on this rural road? Sofia, too, doesn’t bother to correct the strangers, though sometimes she watches Nicolò for some time afterwards, as though waiting for some sign that he is secretly infatuated with her.

“So how did you and your husband meet?” Nicolò asks one afternoon, as they are ambling slowly along the dirt path.

He means to remind her that he means no harm; that he knows she is married, and respects her husband. He’s not sure if that comes across, but Sofia answers him easily enough, saying, “Oh, the marriage was arranged. My cousin Maryam was married off to a man from the village and he was good friends with my husband. Said he was a kind man, and as a carpenter he makes a good living.”

Nicolò hums. “Are you happy with him?”

“As happy as I could expect to be,” Sofia says. “We haven’t been married long, I admit. And the village is lonelier than I thought - Maryam died last year in childbirth, so I lost my connection to my home. But Ihsan — he’s kind, and I do expect over time we will come to love each other more and more. This is the benefit of an arranged marriage, yes? Passion can splinter into hatred so easily.”

Nicolò almost laughs. She’s right: passion can splinter into hatred, but so can hatred splinter into passion. He tries not to let his thoughts show on his face, but she must see them anyway, because she smiles. “I expect you had a different experience.”

Nicolò hums, picking his words carefully. “I had my fate decided by love.”

“You have a wife?” Sofia asks.

“Yes.” Nicolò suspects Yusuf will forgive him the lie. “We were — we didn’t like each other at first. But we were forced together by circumstance, I suppose you would say. And after a time, I came to see the good in him.”

“In her,” Sofia corrects. “Your Arabic is very good,” she adds, as a sort of consolation.

Nicolò smiles and accepts it. “Thank you. Yes, you’re right. I came to see the good in her.”

“And she’s waiting for you in Jerusalem?”

“Yes,” Nicolò says. “Along with the rest of my family.”

Sofia hums and looks ready to say something, before she catches sight of the sun peeking out of a cloud and says, “I’m sorry, I must pray.”

Nicolò leads Jerry to the side of the road obligingly, turning away as Sofia prays. She does this every day; she is devout, dedicated to her religion, and seems to find prayer to be a comfort, not a burden. Yusuf has not prayed so often nor so strictly for many years, but Nicolò remembers the rhythms well, and there is something comfortingly familiar about it, these pauses.

“Do you not pray?” Sofia asks, once they’re back on the road. Nicolò sends her a sidelong glance. “I don’t mean any harm. I just — it is difficult not to notice.”

“My — _wife_ is Muslim,” Nicolò says.

“But not you,” Sofia supplies.

“I don’t have use for it any longer.”

Sofia hums. “I don’t understand that. I mean, I suppose I do, but it’s difficult for me to comprehend. Not seeing God in all things.” She sees Nicolò’s expression and smiles. “Don’t worry. I’m not a missionary, I won’t try to convert you. It’s only — I’m curious. What is it that you think is the source of all things, if not God?”

Nicolò is silent.

“I think there must be something out there,” Sofia says. “Just look at all this beauty.” She gestures to the landscape before them: the tall reddish grass, the olive trees dotted behind them; in the distance, the great shrugging shoulders of a green mountain. “There is so much love in the world. It must come from someone.”

Nicolò knows she means God, or some higher power, but staring out at the landscape around him — the perfect blue sky, the knotted trunks of trees, even the birds trilling in the distance — all Nicolò can think of is Yusuf.

-

In some ways, Sofia reminds Nicolò of Quỳnh.

She is far more naive than Quỳnh ever was, at least in Nicolò’s memory — she confides in Nicolò, early on, that part of the reason she is being so devout in her prayer is her concern for her father; she seems to genuinely believe that her prayer could save him. She is also far too trusting in Nicolò. Nicolò doesn’t mean her any harm, that’s true, but her suspicion had mostly evaporated after the first day or two; if Nicolò wanted to do something to her now, it would be far too easy. It’s a gap Quỳnh wouldn’t have left.

But she also has the same hope in the world that Quỳnh always did. Quỳnh was the one, after all, who had told Nicolò, when he asked why they dreamed of each other, _It’s destiny. We’re meant to meet,_ and kissed Andromache’s cheek. She was always the first to reach out to those who needed help, even when it was risky: how many times had she thrown herself in front of a knife or a bullet for some innocent bystander and, when her attempts at explaining away her health failed, had to take the whole lot of them and flee? She was fierce in a fight, but kind, too, maybe the kindest among them. Nicolò sees that goodness Sofia. If circumstances were different, if Sofia had been thrown into a fight like Quỳnh was, perhaps they might be even more similar.

In the end, it takes almost two weeks before they reach Sofia’s hometown. In the last days before their arrival, Sofia grows increasingly excited, recognizing more and more of their surroundings. She insists on pushing on farther and farther each day, even when it makes her sick _._ “We’re almost there,” she says, when Nicolò suggests she take a few hours to sit in the shade, in the hopes it will help her dizziness abate. “It’ll be just a couple of more hours.”

And sure enough, the next morning, they arrive at Sofia’s home. The moment Sofia’s mother answers the door, Sofia is swept up into a hug. “Oh, habibi,” her mother says into her hair, holding her daughter close. “Habibi, you’re here.”

It only takes a few moments for Sofia’s younger siblings to arrive and start darting around their feet like a pack of puppies, and then from behind the house comes a tall man, his face set in stone. He sees Sofia first, and something soft sweeps across his face; then his gaze lands on Nicolò, and his expression hardens. “So who are you, then?” he demands.

“Ibrahim,” Sofia chides, pulling away from her mother. “Be nice. This is Nicolò.” Sofia gestures him forward and Nicolò steps up, offering Ibrahim his hand. Ibrahim’s grip is firm and callused from work. “Nicolò, this is my oldest brother, Ibrahim, and this is my mama, Zeynep.”

“It’s good to meet you,” Nicolò greets Zeynep, pressing his hand to his chest.

“Ihsan sent him?” Ibrahim asks suspiciously.

“No,” Sofia says. “He found me in an — unpleasant situation, and helped me out. Oh, it’s nothing, Mama, don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m just so glad you got here safely,” Zeynep says, “Oh, Sofia!” And tugs her back into another hug.

Nicolò has half a mind to melt away — Sofia is clearly fine, now, she no longer needs Nicolò’s help — but he knows if he disappears without a trace she’ll be furious, so he stays there, hovering by his horse. “So,” Sofia says finally, once again stepping back from her mother. “Where’s Baba?”

Ibrahim swallows hard and Zeynep averts her eyes, and in a moment, Nicolò knows what has happened. It’s an expression he’s seen far too many times before.

Sofia is slower to realize. “Mama?” she asks when neither of them say anything. “Ibrahim?”

“I’m so sorry,” Ibrahim says roughly, and Sofia’s expression collapses.

“No,” she says, “He was just —”

“He passed away this morning,” Ibrahim says gravely. “The funeral will be this afternoon.”

“This morning?” Sofia says with disbelief. “But that’s - I was just — I only just missed him!”

Zeynep settles her hand on Sofia’s shoulder. “At least you have made it in time for the funeral,” she says. “And you have made it safely. That is the most important thing. That is what your Baba cares about most.”

Sofia shakes her head, tears rolling down her cheeks, but when her mother wraps an arm around her shoulders to guide her into the house, she doesn’t fight it. “Come,” Zeynep says, “There is much to do.”

They seem to have forgotten Nicolò, but still, he doesn’t want to leave without saying goodbye, so he clears his throat awkwardly. “Well,” he says, “I guess I should be —”

But Sofia is frowning at him again, her face wet. “No,” she says, “Please, won’t you stay for the funeral? Baba would have wanted you to stay, I know it.”

“I don’t —” Nicolò starts, looking between Ibrahim and Zeynep, hoping one will help him out.

But Zeynep only says, “She’s right, Hasan would have wanted you to stay,” and Ibrahim, too, nods — albeit reluctantly — and so Nicolò lingers a few more hours.

Not that he minds much. Loss is a tragedy whenever it happens, no matter how much of it Nicolò sees, and really, it’s the least he can do to stay in town for the afternoon to attend the funeral. It is only somewhat awkward — there’s not much to do that hasn’t been done, the townspeople moving like a well-oiled machine, and though Nicolò offers his services, Ibrahim turns him down swiftly. In the end, Nicolò spends most of his afternoon with Jerry, brushing her fur and feeding her slowly, massaging her flanks as he waits to be fetched for the mosque. Eventually, Sofia emerges from the house, dressed in white, and Nicolò knows it’s time.

He follows behind her family on the way to the central town square, careful to keep quiet. There, the Imam is waiting in front of the mosque, the other attendees mingling and murmuring in low voices. Nicolò follows along dutifully with the other men to the front of the procession, keeping to the end of the row, out of the way. Eventually, the Imam says something, and the hush dies down; together, as a group, they turn towards Mecca.

Nicolò has not been often to a Muslim mosque; it has been years since Yusuf invited Nicolò alongside him, and it has been years since Yusuf himself has gone. Most of the prayers the Imam shares are unfamiliar to Nicolò, just slightly off what he remembers. But still, despite the unfamiliarity of the words, despite the fact that Nicolò is not in a church — not in a holy building at all, actually — he feels very much like he has stepped back into the old, familiar practice of Mass. He speaks when he is meant to speak, is silent the rest f the time. Around him there is open weeping, but smiles too, shoulders pressed into shoulders.

Afterwards, Ibrahim and the other men trail to body to the burial site, and Nicolò stays in the central square with Sofia and Zeynep.

“I suppose you need to be on your way now,” Sofia says, before Nicolò can offer his condolences.

“Yes,” Nicolò says. “Unless you need something else?”

Sofia laughs — a small thing, but genuine. “No, I have everything I need here. And you need to be getting back to your family. Your wife.”

“Yes,” Nicolò agrees.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” Sofia says. “I know I didn’t say it before, but I should have. Thank you. I do believe you were sent to me by God.”

Whatever polite thing Nicolò means to say gets stuck in his throat, and he finds himself blurting out, “Aren’t you disappointed with God, right now?”

Zeynep, thankfully, has gone off to speak with some other women, so there’s only Sofia to tilt her head and say, “Why?”

“You prayed for your father’s recovery,” Nicolò points out. “And…”

“Ah, well. I think my mama was right. I am here safe, which is most important. And —” She cuts herself off, looking into the distance. “You know, my father isn’t in pain. He’s happy, wherever he is. Death — it’s not painful for those who experience it, is it? For a moment, maybe, but then it’s over, and things don’t hurt anymore. It would be foolish for me to prolong suffering — mine or anyone else’s — over a fact that can’t be changed. He’s gone. He’s happy. And we’ll survive.” She refocuses, her gaze meeting Nicolò’s. The look in her eyes is so sharp Nicolò almost startles. “Isn’t that all we can ask for?” ****


	4. Part IV (September 1627)

It’s late fall when Nicolò finally arrives in Jerusalem.

He was supposed to arrive earlier — the ship he managed to barter his way onto in Constantinople was due to arrive in September — but there were delays on the rough sea, and an attempted attack by pirates, and it’s well-into November by the time the ship finally reaches its destination.

The first thing Nicolò feels when he steps foot in the city is relief. He’s finally here — after all these long years, all this travel — he’s at the place where he will find his Yusuf. The feeling is weakened by the resurgence of the persistent, nagging worry that Yusuf will not be here, that he will have not remembered their conversation so long ago, or that, because it has been so long, Yusuf will have given up on finding Nicolò in Jerusalem and sought him out elsewhere. These worries were once debilitating. Now, they have a different flavor. It may take Nicolò a long time to find Yusuf — he might have to comb the earth and the seas for his love — but he _will_ find him. He will endure to find him. He knows he will.

So he allows himself to enjoy the city he has not returned to in so many years. Everything is vibrant, even nearing winter: the markets are just as lively as Nicolò remembers them, the shopkeepers just as kind, the children just as screaming loud. Nicolò finds an inn near the southern gate, where he first met Yusuf, hoping that Yusuf has had a similar idea; Jerusalem is a large city, after all, and they had not specified a specific meeting point within in its borders. Another thing for Nicolò to resolve, when he sees Yusuf again.

It’s strange, being back. Each morning Nicolò wakes up and is swept with joy anew at the knowledge that he’s here; and each afternoon, he wanders around markets and inns and tells himself he isn’t disappointed when he doesn’t find Yusuf in any of them. He asks around for Yusuf and Andromache, but they are only travelers, after all — they won’t make much of an impression, and each person he asks gives the same apologetic headshake.

At night, Nicolò dreams of Yusuf. These dreams, too, are different now that Nicolò has arrived in Jerusalem, or maybe they have been different for much longer than that. Nicolò no longer dreams of the iron coffin, or of past memories between him and Yusuf. Instead, he dreams of the future. He imagines coming home to the inn at night and finding Yusuf waiting for him on the bed. He imagines going into a bathhouse for a dip and finding Yusuf floating in a pool of saltwater. He imagines asking a woman if she’s ever heard of Yusuf al-Kaysani, and seeing the way recognition lights up her face, the way she might say _yes, yes — are you his Nicolò?_ He sees Yusuf in every crowd.

Eventually, after a month has passed and Nicolò has not found Yusuf near the southern walls, he ventures out into other parts of the city. Each day, he finds some new corner he has never explored; each day, he finds beauty anew in the sprawling metropolis. The colorful fruits in the market, the burnished yellow city walls, the pink smiles. One afternoon, Nicolò happens across a pottery shop run by a woman who looks so like Jehanne that Nicolò is forced to stop entirely in his tracks. She raises her eyebrow at him, strengthening the likeness. “Do you need something?” she asks, and Nicolò shakes his head and stumbles on.

He sees more of them as the days pass — a man with the same set to his shoulders as Anzolo, a young boy who twirls in the same lighthearted way Sofia had, when she was swept up into her mother’s arms. These people are just like the people Nicolò had met on his journey, just as those people were like others who Nicolò had known before: humans, for all their differences, seem to be repeated over and over. Like a set of motifs on handprinted tile: all slightly different, but all, fundamentally, the same.

It is nearing winter when Nicolò finally finds Yusuf.

It shouldn't surprise him that, in the end, he happens across him totally by chance. Hadn’t that been how it happened the first time, after all? A chance meeting outside the walls of Jerusalem; there were so many other directions Nicolò could have gone when his comrades scattered, so many other directions _Yusuf_ could have gone when he emerged from the gates, but they had found each other, right in the middle of it all: sword to chest.

Yusuf is picking up oranges. A grey-haired woman with a fruit stall had tripped and bumped her own product, sending a basket of them flying, and there’s Yusuf, on his hands and knees, crawling across the cobblestones to pick them up. Nicolò recognizes him even before he turns his head; recognizes him from the curl of his hair, the set of his shoulders. Yusuf presses the last orange into the fruit seller’s palm and pushes himself to his feet, brushing off his trousers as she thanks him profusely, and he turns around —

And he sees Nicolò —

And time stops.

Nicolò thinks he might be crying. Actually, he is sure he is — his vision is blurry with a sheen of tears and there Yusuf is, looking so beautiful — how could he not cry? He can’t seem to find the presence of mind to move his feet, but luckily, Yusuf is strong enough for the both of them, because even as his mouth falls open in a gasp of Nicolò’s name, he’s moving, half-sprinting across the market to crash into Nicolò’s arms.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf says against Nicolò’s neck, his voice dripping in disbelief. “My love.”

Nicolò, beaming, squeezes Yusuf to him. “Hayati,” he says, “My love, my heart —”

“How long have you been here?” Yusuf demands, pulling back to meeting Nicolò’s eyes. “When —”

“I arrived on a ship from Constantinople last month,” Nicolò says.

“Last _month?_ ” Yusuf demands. “Where? I have been here for two years, searching for you, I —”

“I was near the southern gate,” Nicolò says. “Where we met.”

“We didn’t meet at the southern gate!”

Nicolò laughs, too thrilled to argue. “No?”

“No, you - you Frankish idiot, wet met at the _northern_ gate, don’t you remember, the way the sun fell into your eyes when our swords met —”

“Yusuf,” Nicolò says, “I have not seen you in over four years. I don’t care right now what gate we met at. Take me home.”

-

Yusuf doesn’t let go of Nicolò’s hand the whole way back to the inn; he keeps glancing back at him with his wide doe-eyes, as though stunned anew each time he sees him. Nicolò’s chest feels warm and tight, filled with sunshine-air; he could almost burst with it.

Luckily, the inn isn’t too far from the market, tucked between a seamstress and a tavern. It takes Nicolò a moment to recognize it.

“Have we been here before?” he asks.

“Yes,” Yusuf says, “The last time we were in the city. You don’t remember?”

But Nicolò does, now — it was almost fifty years ago, he thinks, and they’d been passing through on their way to Athens from Russia. They had stayed in Jerusalem almost a week, the four of them, because it was the four of them — Andromache and Quỳnh in one room, Yusuf and Nicolò in the next, an uncharacteristically slow and easy week. Almost a vacation: Andromache had lifted the wallet from a man who spat at Quỳnh’s feet, who turned out to be quite wealthy, and they had spent their time feasting like kings.

Now, Nicolò laughs. “Do you remember —”

“When Quỳnh stole the donkey,” Yusuf finishes. “Yes. I thought she was going to get hung as a thief.”

“Wouldn’t have been the first time,” Nicolò says, still beaming. He meets Yusuf’s gaze. How lovely, to realize that past happiness is not gone at all, just waiting to be remembered.

“Come on,” Yusuf says, voice suddenly gruff. “The room is upstairs.”

They’ve scarcely made it through the door before Yusuf has Nicolò pressed back against the wall. “Habibi,” Nicolò says, finally lifting a hand to thread through Yusuf’s hair, and Yusuf keens, pressing forward to kiss him.

“You don’t understand,” Yusuf manages between kisses, “It’s been years, you should have been here by now, I thought I had lost you, I thought you might never be found —”

“I am right here, my love,” Nicolò murmurs, slipping his leg between Yusuf’s. “I missed you, too, but I am right here.”

Yusuf presses his forehead to Nicolò’s. “Where have you _been?_ ”

Nicolò huffs out half a laugh. “So many places, my love. But in truth, I was with you the whole time.”

Yusuf’s eyes go dark. “Nicolò.”

And what is Nicolò supposed to do then? _Not_ take him to bed?

“You seem different,” Yusuf says, afterwards, when they’re lying together on the mattress — Yusuf’s head on Nicolò’s chest, Nicolò’s hand in Yusuf’s hair.

“How so?”

Yusuf shakes his head. “I don’t know.” He presses a kiss to Nicolò’s collarbone. “Just different.”

“Well.” Nicolò wraps one of Yusuf’s curls around his fingers, staring up at the ceiling. “I suppose the months away have changed me. I think I understand better, now.”

“Understand what?”

“Why you do the things you do,” Nicolò says. “How you see the world.”

Yusuf pushes himself up onto his elbow so he can look Nicolò in the eyes. “Is that a good thing?”

Nicolò hums. “I suppose that’s for you to decide.” He reaches up to tuck a stray curl behind Yusuf’s ear, and then keeps his hand there, his thumb stroking across Yusuf’s cheek. “But it has not diminished my love for you in the slightest. If anything, I love you more.”

Yusuf smiles, helpless. “Flatterer.”

“No,” Nicolò counters. “Just honest.”

Yusuf slumps back down onto Nicolò’s chest, then, and they lay there for a while longer in the warm air. “Where’s Andromache?” Nicolò asks eventually. He doesn’t expect her to be in the city —-there’s no sign of a second rucksack in this room, and Yusuf has not mentioned her thus far — so he’s surprised when Yusuf stiffens in his arms and says, “Out looking for you, I suppose.”

Nicolò raises an eyebrow, and Yusuf sighs. “She has been very — determined. To find you.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not, it’s just —” Yusuf sighs again, and pushes himself to his feet. Nicolò mourns the loss of his touch even as he admires the way Yusuf bends over to put on his trousers. “She is only doing it because she feels guilty. If she did not think herself responsible for it, she would not be here, still.”

“I suspect she’s not the only one who thinks she’s responsible.” Yusuf doesn’t look at him. “Yusuf.”

“Can we not talk about this right now? Look, I just - I _just_ got you back, do we really need to —”

“No,” Nicolò caves, ignoring the winching tightness in his chest. “You’re right, I’m sorry. We can give it some time.”

“Thank you,” Yusuf says, ducking forward to press a kiss to Nicolò’s mouth. “Come on. I haven’t eaten yet today and there’s a baker down the road. Maybe we’ll find Andromache shilling bread.”

Of course, they don’t — the baker has nothing but floury flatbreads and rich oil to dip them in — but Nicolò enjoys his outing with Yusuf anyway, enjoys the dates Yusuf buys from the same woman whose oranges he had knocked over that morning, and when they return to the inn, they find Andromache waiting for them, as though she had known just when they would arrive.

“Nicolò.” Her grip is tight around his shoulders, her hug lingering. Nicolò squeezes her back just as hard. “You — when did you arrive?”

“Months ago,” Yusuf gripes before Nicolò can respond. “He’s been on the other half of the city this whole time. Can you believe it?”

“It’s good to see you,” Andromache says. “Shit, Nico. I was starting to think we’d never find you.”

“Yes, well.” Nicolò gives an awkward shrug, all too aware of the tense line of Yusuf at his shoulders. “I’m here.”

“Yeah. Shit. Well, I think this warrants a drink, don’t you?”

They head to the tavern one building over and order drinks. Nicolò is all too aware of the tension between Yusuf and Andromache — neither of them seem to want to look at each other for very long, and any languid relaxation Nicolò had fucked into Yusuf this afternoon has long since dissipated. It’s not hard to imagine how it might have arisen: the tension, the guilt, the resentment had all been there even before Nicolò went missing. His absence would have only ramped things up. But it does not worry him. He’s here now, and he’s confident that whatever has come between Yusuf and their sister will mend itself in time.

Over their drinks, Yusuf finally tells Nicolò how he and Andromache had ended up here — a ship from Portsmouth to Venice, then on to Jerusalem. In turn, Nicolò tells them about washing up in France, about Jehanne and her farm, his long road to Genova, about Anzolo and the fighters, about Sofia and her family and his final ship to Jerusalem.

“You really took the slow path, didn’t you?” Andromache says, one Nicolò has finally finished.

“I prefer to think of it as the scenic route,” Nicolò corrects. “And, anyway, I didn’t have any money — what did you expect me to do? Steal a ship?”

It’s not that funny, but it’s been a long, exhausting day and the three of them are worked up enough that they all find themselves laughing — harder and harder, until they can’t stop. Eventually, Yusuf’s head finds its way onto Nicolò’s shoulder, and though Nicolò can’t kiss him, he raises a hand and lays it on Yusuf’s head and closes his eyes, still laughing, thinking: _this is it. I’m home._

-

The next morning, Nicolò wakes with the sun and decides to go get breakfast. He's dressed and halfway to the door before he considers how Yusuf might react if he wakes to find Nicolò gone, even if only for a brief moment, so he returns to perch on the edge of their bed instead. He shakes Yusuf awake gently, and Yusuf rouses slowly, smacking his mouth together.

"What time is it?" he murmurs.

"Early," Nicolò replies. "I'm going to the market, I just wanted to let you know. I'll be back in a bit."

Yusuf blinks up at him, still sleepy, looking so at-peace that Nicolò isn't expecting the way, a few seconds later, Yusuf's eyes suddenly fill with tears. "Hey," Nicolò says, immediately concerned. Yusuf shuffles forward himself so he can rest his cheek on Nicolò's thigh, and Nicolo threads a hand through Yusuf's hair. "Habibi, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Yusuf says, his voice rough. "It's just - it's stupid," he laughs, "I just realized I missed you so much I actually missed being woken up before the sunrise. Can you believe that?"

Nicolò's breath catches in his throat. "I can believe that," he says after a moment, "Because I have spent the last four winters missing your cold feet against my calves."

Yusuf beams at Nicolò through his tears. "You're not going to the market alone," he says. "I cannot believe I'm saying this, but get me my shoes. I am emerging from bed at the ripe hour of -"

"Six," Nicolò says.

"Six!" Yusuf laughs again, seeming delighted by the thought, and Nicolò, who can't restrain himself any longer, takes Yusuf's face in his heads so he can press a long kiss to his cheek.

At the market they get oranges and bread. Yusuf keeps sagging into Nicolò's side, yawning, but he never stops smiling either. When they get back to the inn, they wake Andromache, and she comes to join them, sitting cross-legged by the foot of their bed, peeling her oranges in single long pulls.

Andromache isn’t looking at Nicolò, so he isn't expecting it when she says, “We’ve agreed its best we stop looking for a time.”

Nicolò blinks at her, but she's staring down at the orange peel in her palm. Quỳnh is so far from Nicolò's mind in this moment that it takes him a second to realize that's what she's talking about.  “The technology isn’t good enough,” Yusuf adds. Unlike Andromache, he’s watching Nicolò attentively, gaze flitting over his face. Gauging his reaction. “We both want to keep looking but it just doesn’t — the risk.”

“When did you talk about this?” Nicolò asks carefully, setting down his bread.

“Some months ago,” Andromache says. “We agreed — if we found you. It wouldn’t be worth the risk.”

_If_ they found him. Nicolò wonders that means for if they hadn’t — would they have kept throwing themselves into the sea in some sort of deranged suicide mission until they were all lost?

Nicolò is so caught up in the thought he doesn’t realize that Andromache’s eyes have lifted from her orange and now she and Yusuf are both looking at him, something almost wary in their gaze. In a moment, Nicolò realizes they expect him to argue.

Nicolò remembers his words on the ship — _what, you’re so terrified of losing your own life that you’d leave Quỳnh to be tortured forever? —_ and familiar guilt twists in his stomach. Now, though, he doesn’t allow it to swallow him; he breathes in and pushes through it.

“That seems wise,” he says, and immediately Yusuf relaxes beside him, shoulders slumping. He was truly nervous about this; Nicolò slides his hand over Yusuf’s shoulders in a silent apology, smiling when Yusuf catches his gaze. “Just until the technology is better.”

“Yes,” Yusuf agrees.

Andromache looks less obviously thrilled; she clenches her jaw, nods, and rises to her feet in one smooth motion. “We should decide what we’re doing next, then,” she says.

Nicolò looks to Yusuf. Yusuf looks to him. “I haven’t been paying much attention to world politics,” Yusuf admits.

“Neither have I,” Nicolò says.

“There’s always Nanjing,” Andromache says. When they look at her, she shrugs. “That’s where Quỳnh and I were planning to go, once we met up with you two. We figured we’d find something to do along the way.”

“Nanjing is a long way,” Yusuf says. “Nicolò may be tired of traveling.”

But Nicolò shakes his head. “Tired of traveling alone, perhaps. Nanjing sounds fun. When’s the last time we were in China? 1314?”

“1317,” Yusuf says. “I’m sure it has changed since then.”

Nicolò says, “So have we.”

Yusuf kisses him, then, tasting like oranges and bread. “I’ll buy us tickets this afternoon,” he says, and that’s enough to earn him another kiss, and another, and another. Nicolò can’t seem to make himself stop.

But why would he? He’s so lucky, so lucky to have this, his Yusuf; why not savor him? Nicolò knots his hand in Yusuf’s hair and pulls him in again.

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for this story from 'life is very long' by kaydeefalls, which features a scene where Nicky is reunited with Yusuf after they have been separated because Nicky fell overboard. It only took them a year to reunite in that fic, but I thought: hmm, I wonder what would happen if they didn't have a designated meeting place and caches of money all over Europe? And we landed on this.
> 
> Originally, I wanted this story to be a love letter to Yusuf. (Is it because he's my favorite? Cannot confirm. But also, yes.) Somehow, this turned out to be a story that Yusuf barely featured in. Whoops. Next story, maybe.
> 
> Details on the historical accuracy: I tried, but you know - who knows. Did people in the 1600s stop sailing ships in the winter? No, probably not, that doesn’t make sense. Ignore it, because I needed it like that for plot. Would people in France care that much about the Pope/know that much about the Pope? I don’t know! Having said that, the events in this story did really occur: Maffeo Barberini did become Pope Urban VIII in the 1620s and was favored by Galileo initially; there was a siege of Genova (called the Relief of Genova) that ended shortly after the Spanish came to their rescue; etc. But, you know, in case you missed the memo: this is fanfiction. I read some articles; I didn't do a deep dive in history. If you’re a history aficionado, there are likely to be inaccuracies in this story which will bother you. It’s fanfic. Don’t use it as a history textbook.
> 
> That said, if any of my depictions in this fic — historical or otherwise — are offensive towards any group, do please let me know that. Again, I’ve done my best to be culturally sensitive, but this fic is set in several countries I’ve never been to, in addition to being set in the past. So just drop me a comment or an ask on my tumblr and let me know what needs to be fixed and I’ll address it as soon as I can.
> 
> Credits: I stole most of the sermon in chapter one from this link here: https://www.lifeway.com/en/articles/sermon-life-longest-journey-abraham-isaac-genesis-22. 
> 
> The title is from a poem called crystal vision in spring by Jade Hurter. 
> 
> And you can find me on tumblr as joeandnicky :)


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